This time some strange instinct drew his eyes to the window, and he sprang to his feet with a smothered cry. A sweet, white face, framed in golden hair, was pressed against the window-pane looking at him, with dark eyes full of love and sorrow—the beautiful face of his absent daughter, Queenie.
"She has come home—my darling!" he cried joyfully, and rushed to the window and threw up the sash.
But in that moment the lovely young face had disappeared.
"Queenie, my love—where are you?" he called. "Do not tease your poor old papa!"
But silence and darkness answered him only. He went out into the garden and wandered about in the shrubbery, calling, softly.
"Queenie, Queenie!"
But echo only answered him.
He went back sadly into the house and thought over the perplexing mystery.
"She is dead," he said, at last; "I have seen her spirit. She has come to me from far-off foreign lands to bid me an eternal farewell. Oh, Queenie, Queenie, my lost darling!"
And from that night Mr. Lyle began to grow old and broken. He could neither eat, nor sleep, nor rest until he heard from his wife again.